


Fight

by Sabaxoxoxo



Category: Outlander (TV), Outlander Series - Diana Gabaldon
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M, Moodboard Oneshot, Newborn Baby, father daughter
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-17
Updated: 2019-12-17
Packaged: 2021-02-26 02:15:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,910
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21815755
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sabaxoxoxo/pseuds/Sabaxoxoxo
Summary: Nestled in the crook of his arm was a two-day old newborn, sucking vigorously on the tip of Jamie Fraser’s forefinger, as small and as slight as a whisper.A night in the life of Jamie and his newborn daughter, Bree.My contribution to the Moodboard Oneshot challenge
Relationships: Claire Beauchamp/Jamie Fraser
Comments: 66
Kudos: 222





	Fight

**Author's Note:**

> a/n Thank you so much to Trisha (@IamNotTrisha) and Cheryl (@Outlanderlush) for organising this terrific challenge, and to Susan (@veryfaintveryhuman) for making this gorgeous moodboard. It inspired me so much, and I really hope I've done some justice to your wonderful creation. 
> 
> Thanks, of course, to my beta battalion - Danielle (@smashingteacups), Beth (@fierceweebadger), and Shrada (@kiltymind) for fixing this mess. You ladies are all-round spectacular humans <3

If you were to walk into Jamie Fraser’s bedroom during the small hours of the night on November 25th, you would see it varnished in a cobalt light, so vivid it had a sound. The murmuring, flat tone would float upon your eardrums, underscored by the distant whine of sirens from the street below. You would notice how his bedroom walls were dappled with moonlight, streetlights, headlights, and an unplaceable emptiness would gleam around the edges of your vision. You would feel the dehumidified air ripple over your skin, prickling it with goosebumps, though it was not cold. In the middle of the room, on the edge of the bed, facing away from you, you would see Jamie Fraser himself; or his broad back, clad in an old grey t-shirt, auburn curls littering the base of his neck. If you were to walk into that bedroom on that night, you would have thought him alone, though he was not. For nestled in the crook of his arm was a two-day old newborn, sucking vigorously on the tip of Jamie Fraser’s forefinger, as small and as slight as a whisper.

//

The first time Jamie woke that night, he was lying on Claire’s pillow. Her scent — coconut conditioner, sage, and a faint tinge of hand sanitiser — hummed around his nostrils as he inhaled deeply and held his breath, allowing her bouquet to soothe the dull ache spreading from the centre of his forehead to his temples, before exhaling strongly through his nose. His eyes fell upon the picture frame on Claire’s nightstand. It was a photo of him, snapped at the exact moment he had turned to look over his shoulder — tousled hair, stubbled chin, and eyes glinting with mischief. He remembered that day vividly, could still hear her tinkling laugh.

_He’d pulled up to her apartment at 4 am, despite the fact that he had left her only hours before. Noting his own relief at being near her again mirrored on her face, he paused briefly to fasten the helmet under her chin before all but throwing her onto the back of his motorbike. They had driven for miles, wild and fast, and he remembered feeling her fairy-thin arms clinging tightly around his waist, and the heat from her body on his back, even through his leather jacket. They stopped — only when the sun began to bashfully stretch the first of her fingers into the sky — on the side of a winding road fringed with 100-foot pines the colour of emeralds and jade. She had climbed off the back, undoing her helmet and passing it to him, before straddling the front of the bike, facing him, and leaning back on the handle bars. She’d looked so carefree, as if lazy ocean waves rolled across her features — serene but purposeful. He’d felt his cock twitch at the way her thighs, clad in tiny denim shorts, clamped around the black metal body of his bike, and the way her curls waltzed on her cheeks, until she casually shoved them away with the back of her hand. He hadn’t noticed before, but she had brought her Polaroid camera with her; and now, with a brazen smile and her teeth sunk into the pillowy pout of her bottom lip, she photographed his utterly bewitched face._

_“Here, gimme that, Sassenach. I want to get one of you,” he said, scooting back to fit more of her into the frame. God, she was an angel — the first rays of the sunrise behind her looked as if they were beaming out from the centre of her back, golden streams unfurling like wings. He managed one snap, that did no justice to the gleaming creature in front of him, before she snatched the camera back and resumed her own photography. He twisted to place her helmet into the case behind him, when she sang“Jamie!”, and he turned at the same moment as the camera clicked._

He hadn’t any photos of the bairn yet, though they had planned so many. The transparent pockets in their photo albums (Claire insisted they maintain physical family albums, because she’d never had any growing up), glossy with anticipation for the next 4x6’’ instalment of their lives, remained empty. The close-up shots of a red, newborn face and mittened paws that should have joined other significant moments – the seaside road trip celebrating their first anniversary, the surprise engagement party following a midnight proposal under the stars, the rest of the polaroids from their sunrise motorbike ride – were missing. Jamie reached across his bed to where his daughter slept, slipping a finger between the tiny fists balled under her chin to feel the faint brush of a breath. She stirred, hiccupping, and he placed his hand on her belly, palm covering her entire abdomen, until its weight settled her rapidly-beating heart and she fell back asleep.

“Forgive me, _a nighean_ ,” he whispered.

//

The second time Jamie woke that night, not even an hour after the first, he had forgotten. As he padded down the corridor from sleep to wakefulness, he inventoried his chores for the day. There was probably a mountain of emails waiting on his computer... he needed to call the plumber to check the leaky bathroom faucet… he’d have to stop at the grocery store on his way home for mid-week supplies, and pick up his weekly bouquet from the florist he frequented so often that she now knew Claire’s favourite flowers. It was on the heels of this last thought that he came fully and suddenly awake, remembering.

He heard his broken heart break, again. It was a small, clean sound like the snapping of a flower’s stem. He felt his blood, spiked with anguish, throb in his veins. The tiny letter ‘c’ in the crook of his elbow – a vow made just out of adolescence – pulsed, stinging as it had when the tattoo needle had initially pierced his skin. But that time, it had been the kind of pain to be savoured – like the kind felt in your lungs after a brisk dawn run, or the niggling ache of arousal. This pain, however, he could not endure. It made his organs itch and his skin numb.

He blamed himself entirely. He should have known. They had been through this once, and had lost their first – a daughter, just like this one. He clenched his jaw, thinking about how he’d _known_ pregnancy could be dangerous; _known_ about Claire’s susceptibility to hemorrhage, and yet, had allowed this to happen. He was disgusted at his own hypocrisy, standing at the altar, staring into those amber eyes and vowing to love, honour and protect her.

In the end, he hadn’t been able to protect her. He’d hurt her instead.

He swallowed. The taste of regret (not insisting harder that the doctors were right – that they could try again, but there was no guarantee that mother or child would survive), and guilt (spitting hateful, untrue words at her seconds before she fell to her knees) coated his mouth. He was to blame for burning those fiery eyes to ashes; for hushing the drum of her heart to a faint echo of its once lively beat.

He was so ashamed, his limbs felt laden with it – too heavy to move. And had the bairn not needed to be fed, changed and cradled every hour, he would have vowed to never move again, cease to think until his brain turned to mush and gave him some respite from this waking nightmare.

With himalayan effort, he forced himself upright, shoving his fingers through his unwashed hair, and rubbing his eyes. His lashline stung, dry with the need for sleep and the lack of tears. His daughter, unfortunately, had plenty – waking at the movement around her and promptly issuing a chorus of shrieks. He fed her a bottle of formula, changed her, and then puttered around the bedroom with her head on his shoulder, small bobs and hums punctuating his steps. But despite both his brain and body screaming with exhaustion, what he felt most strongly was every cry bursting from her lilliputian chest, knifing across his heart – because he knew she was not hungry, or dirty, or even that tired.

He knew she missed her mam.

So did he.

//

In the dark, Jamie thumbed through the ornaments cluttering the dresser, picking up a necklace hanging on Claire’s jewellery stand. Holding it by the chain above the baby’s face, he swayed it like a hypnotist, willing her to fall asleep. Her cries ceased the second her eyes caught the twinkling copper locket, and the glow of streetlights from the window sparkled on her tears, the way sunlight plays hopscotch on the sea. A small, tired smile tugged on the corner of Jamie’s mouth as he watched his spellbound daughter – the soft peach fuzz on her chubby cheeks glistening with teardrops, and her tongue peeking in and out of her mouth involuntarily. He hadn’t noticed when he picked up the necklace, but realized now that it was one he had given Claire – one of his first gifts, actually. It was a copper key, strung on a chain, with the word _fight_ engraved on the bow.

“Did ye ken I gave your mam this?” he asked softly. His daughter's eyes darted to the sound of his voice, twin sets of sapphire eyes locking instantly.

“Aye.” He nodded. “I remember spendin’ all night in my da – your grandda’s – old shed, engraving this key with a hammer and a wee chisel. Yer mam was about to scrap all her plans of going to medical school, and I couldna let her do that. Ye ken yer mam, she was always smart, and she had such potential.” He rocked the baby gently as he paced the length of the bedroom, remembering his argument with Claire when she’d announced – walking out of their high school gates – that she was giving up her dreams of becoming a doctor.

_“Ye’ve gotta keep fighting, Sassenach,” he’d said. “So what if ye failed a test? You can retake it, ye canna give up!” “_

_But it isn’t just one test, Jamie,” she rebutted. “I failed the two before this as well. And I’m so mad because I know it, I know the stuff, but I keep thinking about what will happen if I don’t get that scholarship." She sighed loudly. "Now I don’t even have a chance!”_

He recounted the frigid night in which he’d carved one word – an aphorism of encouragement – inciting her to keep fighting.

“It was tricky, mind, cause your da’s fingers are so fat and clumsy, I couldna see was I carving the key or my finger! And my hands sweat something fierce,” he added, unconsciously wiping his palm on his thigh.

“Then finally, in the wee hours of the night, I was done.” He smiled at his daughter, her eyelids drooping at the lull of his baritone.

They’d arranged to meet before school, behind the bike shed, after Jamie had coyly informed Claire over the phone the previous night that he had something to give her.

“In the morning though, I pulled out the key, threaded onto a gold chain – I’d wrapped it in some newspaper I’d found in the shed – and all of a sudden I was embarrassed. I thought, maybe yer mam would’ve liked one of those sparkly trinkets that the other girls in our class used to wear, the real tacky stuff,” he scoffed.

He remembered passing it to her quickly, avoiding her eyes and scuffing the toe of his boot into the frosty grass they stood in.

“But Claire, she was always full o’ surprises. She unwrapped the parcel and looked at me as if she wasna sure would she laugh or cry, and then she says, ‘ _Oh Jamie, it’s wonderful._ ’” His eyes welled with tears, and he swallowed the lump in his throat. He suddenly felt pleasantly foolish and foolishly pleased with himself, as he had when he’d first given her the necklace.

Chuckling softly, he whispered, “I willna embarrass ye too much, lass,” watching the baby’s eyes drift closed and feeling her erratic heartbeat slow. “But she kissed me then.”

He remembered feeling Claire’s strong, frozen fingertips press into the back of his neck, and how he’d tasted rain and earth when her lips collided with his own. She’d blinded his senses and made his blood sing.

“And I said to myself, I said _Jamie, lad, ye canna dissolve everytime she kisses ye like that! Keep yourself upright, man, follow each exhale with an inhale_.” He laughed quietly. “I was a fool then, and I’m a fool now.”

Claire didn’t wear the necklace so much anymore, not like she used to – everyday throughout medical school. But he sometimes walked into their bedroom to find her at the dresser, playing fondly with the key, and he would taste the echo of her on his mouth, and feel the crunching ice at their feet as she vowed – they vowed – to keep fighting.

//

He didn’t sleep again after that, not for a few hours. It was as if his body was so exhausted, even falling asleep felt like it required too much effort. He simply sat, leaning on the headboard, with the baby asleep on his legs stretched out in front of him. He picked random points in the bedroom to stare at until his eyes went out of focus. Then, he checked on his daughter – her breathing, whether she needed changing – before picking something else in the room to look at, but not see. The bedroom looked as if the supermarket baby aisle had sneezed on their otherwise minimal quarters. Islands of nappies, wipes, and muslin cloths – postcards from Claire’s nesting spell – littered the edges of the room. She had been frazzled and preoccupied, scrubbing every surface in their home in preparation for the baby. Jamie had obediently assembled a crib, playpen, high chair, and the million other boxes of furniture Claire insisted they needed. He’d hoovered every square inch of carpet, while her keen eyes and bossy forefinger identified missed spots from her armchair in the corner of the room. But it was a small price to pay to see his wife, swelling day by day with their child.

She had doggedly fought Jamie over trying again when he had been hesitant, given their life-threatening experience the first time. But in the end, he had ceded, because he could never say no to those desperate, pleading, whisky eyes – swimming with tears of frustration.

And for a time, it had looked like it would work.

_She had gradually filled out over the months, and one day, Jamie woke to find her head on his chest, a white bedsheet twisted around her naked middle, and the bairn — who had the skin of Claire’s belly pulled tight over its watery world — nestled between them. The sight painted everything else he’d ever seen in a dull grey. Laying still so as not to wake her, he’d scoffed mentally at his hitherto naive belief that he had seen beautiful, majestic sights (Loch Ness, the Northern Lights). He had not known beauty, nor majesty until he’d woken with his pregnant wife sleeping on him – the moonlight from the window glimmering on the shiny stretch marks that had appeared low on her abdomen, and her soft breath tickling the hairs on his chest. He looked down at what he could see of her eyelashes, brushing her high cheekbones, and her nose, squished into the centre of his chest. His eyes searched her face – not in question, but in the way one does when seeing anew some object grown familiar – seeing with the eyes what has been seen for a long time only with the heart._

It had worked, and he had begun to forgive himself for putting something inside of her that had the potential to hurt her, as it had the first time.

And now look what he’d done.

//

This time, his eyes fell on one of the few remaining non-baby items: Claire’s black pumps, the ones she called her ‘dancing shoes,’ in the corner of the room. There it was again, that feeling of ice water being poured down his throat, freezing his insides. He thought of her always – she was too well tangled in his mind to forget – and yet, in moments like this, when he was reminded of that night, the ache spiked and his blood ran cold.

_They had stormed into the house, bickering. Claire ripped off her scarf and coat, tossing them onto the bed, and kicked her dancing shoes into the corner._

_“I’m waiting for you to say something – anything that approaches an apology!” she hissed, swinging around to face him, hands on her hips._

_“An apology?” he asked, bewildered._

_“Yes,” she snapped. “An apology. You embarrassed me, Jamie! You made it sound like I was some sort of housewife, stuck at home, looking after the baby, doing – a – a woman’s job!”_

_Jamie frowned. Not only did he not recall saying anything of the sort, he was shocked at her sudden change in mood – when she had been so excited all evening, celebrating her last few weeks of freedom before the baby came._

_“You don’t care about what I want, or how I feel!” she bit out, getting progressively louder. “You just went ahead and told all our friends I’d be out of work for ‘the next year or so,’” she said, spitefully imitating Jamie’s accent._

_“Well how was I supposed to know how long you were planning to be out of work? Ye hadna told me, and as much as this might surprise ye, Claire, I canna read yer mind!” he growled, angry now, thinking about how throughout the pregnancy, he’d been as accommodating as possible. He hacked at the buttons of his dress shirt, glowering at his very pregnant, very furious wife._

_“Well you could have asked!” she yelled back, “instead of going ahead and making a decision about_ my _work! But you probably wouldn’t have listened to me anyway, I’m just your wife, you think I’m only fit to do as I’m told and obey orders!”_

_Jamie clenched his jaw, and turned away, walking to the closet to hang up his shirt. “I’m done wi’ this conversation, Claire. You ken fine well that’s not the truth. Ye need to calm down before ye hurt the bairn.”_

_“You fucking bastard!” she said in a low tone. “I don’t have to do what you te-” She broke off with a sharp intake of breath._

_He swung back around. For a second, all Jamie could see was how the skirt of her turquoise cocktail dress was turning a deep plum, as a spot of blood spread slowly on the fabric, blooming like a poppy. An eerie quiet palled the room, and his vision sharpened._

_He noticed the last of her summer freckles, sprinkled across her nose and cheeks, pinched with pain. He saw how her knuckles, gripping her skirt, were white with strain, and the fine hairs on her arms bristling with goosebumps._

_He watched a drop of blood hang precariously onto the hem of her skirt for a few seconds before slipping off the edge and sinking into the thick carpet between her feet. He heard it, the soft plop, and the liquid seeping into the fibres of the rug, and then he heard everything, all at once._

_The sobs erupted from Claire’s hunched form, on her knees and curled over her belly, punctuated with sharp gasps._

_“- Jamie!” she panted, her eyes scrunched shut. A film of sweat had formed on her upper lip, and tendrils of curls that had escaped from her bun stuck to her clammy forehead. Her screams bounced off the walls, deep guttural sounds, the likes of which he’d never imagined his tiny wife could produce. He crouched next to her, holding her shoulders and brushing the hair from her face. The bitter knowledge that it was happening again, and he was as helpless as he had always been, swirled in his stomach, making him feel sick. He shoved his own feelings aside._

_“Sassenach - Claire! What - what can I do?” He pleaded, feeling suffocated by the smell of iron in the thick air._

_“Hosp-… get… to the hospital…” she managed._

_And then her eyes rolled shut._

He fell asleep – finally – hearing echoes of the hollow platitudes the nurses at the hospital had offered. _“It was no one’s fault, there was nothing you could have done to change things.”_

He had swallowed the anger and replied in a voice just above a whisper, _“But it_ is _my fault. I did this to her.”_

//

In his half-asleep state, Jamie heard the irritating clang of his alarm in the early hours of the morning. He grunted, flipped over, and was back asleep before the alarm had turned itself off.

Then it restarted, an incessant, loud ringing, this time accompanied by the sharp cry of his daughter in the bed beside him. For a moment, his mind was awake, but his body wasn’t, and while his brain tried to initiate the process of reaching to silence the alarm, his limbs lay immobile, snared in the clouds of sleep.

Finally, coming fully awake, he reached for his phone, swiping blindly to turn off the alarm – which, annoyingly, would not shut off – while picking up his screeching daughter with his other arm. Blinking to clear his eyes, he sat up and exhaled deeply through his nose, looking at his phone.

It wasn’t the alarm; it was a phone call. He blinked again, recognising the number. He’d seen it enough times on Claire’s phone screen – it was the hospital. He shot off the bed, hastily sliding his thumb across the screen to answer it.

“Hello? Aye, hello, this is he,” he replied, swallowing to try and lubricate his suddenly dry mouth. His head spun from the sudden movement, and he sat back down on the edge of the bed. The baby lay in the crook of his arm, still fussing, and he secured the phone between his ear and shoulder so he could place his forefinger on her bottom lip, which she began to suckle, quieting.

“Mr. Fraser, I’m calling to tell you that Claire is awake. She woke just half an hour ago, and is being tested now. Everything so far is looking good,” said the nurse on the other end of the line, a smile in her voice. “You can come and see her whenever you’re ready. And bring the baby, she’s been asking for the two of you since the moment she woke up.”

The breath left his lungs in a rush. “ _Ah dhia_.” He felt the relief burst and spread in each of his cells, in a frenzy. “Aye, yes, we’ll be there. We’ll be there as soon as we can. Thank ye, thank ye truly,” he added, struggling to keep up with the stream of information the nurse was relaying, as his heartbeat skipped and tumbled with the knowledge that she was still here; still his.

He pulled his daughter to his chest, breathing in the clean, new smell of her her fuzzy head. “Did ye hear that? She’s alright, _a nighean_ ,” he whispered, tears welling in his eyes again. “Yer mam is alright, ye can meet her properly. Dinna cry now, lass, I’ve got ye, and I willna let ye go. I willna let either of ye go.”


End file.
